In the water
in a mirror
in the cold steel of a knife
in a dark window
in the eyes of the beloved.
A little, a rind, an edge
of reality hovers, fleeting, distorted.
Only this.

Writing under a Montreal sky
In the water
in a mirror
in the cold steel of a knife
in a dark window
in the eyes of the beloved.
A little, a rind, an edge
of reality hovers, fleeting, distorted.
Only this.

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